When Tempting a Rogue (9 page)

“I think perhaps we might want to consider hiring more watchmen,” she suggested.

Trystan nodded in agreement. “Firing the ones we have and hiring anew might be the best option. Our vandal might have paid one of them to turn a blind eye.”

Indignation stiffened Vienne’s spine. “Then we should question them. Immediately!”

Still holding her hand, Trystan led her down the stairs. They would tour the upper floor once the step had been repaired—a feat which she hoped could be accomplished sooner rather than later. “No one’s going admit to taking a bribe, Vienne. You are as aware of that as I am. No, we will fire them and hire new security. I have several men on retainer who I trust impeccably. Would you care to meet them?”

She shook her head. “No. If you approve of them, I am certain they are above reproach.”

He stopped suddenly and turned. She was on the bottom step, but the movement threw her off balance and she only barely managed to avoid falling into his arms again.

“Why, Madame La Rieux,” he began, all affected surprise and humility, “I do believe that was a compliment.”

Vienne rolled her eyes at him as she stepped down, though should have stayed where she was and taken advantage of the extra height. Now she had to look up to meet his gaze. “You are a good judge of character, Trystan. We may have our . . . disagreements, but that will never be one of them.”

He folded his arms over his chest—
when had it gotten so broad?—
and leaned one shoulder against the pale peach wall. “I suppose I’m such an excellent judge of character because I had the good taste to fall into your bed when you issued the invitation?”

The remark was so unexpected, Vienne felt heat rush to her cheeks—and, at that moment, despised him for it even as she gave him a certain respect for the well-placed barb. “Of course,” she replied, covering her embarrassment . . . and hurt, which lay under a veneer of brazen flippancy. It was an affectation that had served her well in the past, especially in regard to Trystan.

But instead of retreating like a slapped little boy—as he had years before—he grinned. “There’s the Vienne I know. For a moment I thought the matter with the stairs had you completely flummoxed.”

The nerve!
Vienne opened her mouth to tell him just what she thought of his assumption when one of the large double doors not far from them opened, revealing a man in the Barrington Hotel uniform. He carried a large picnic basket, and his face lit up when he saw Trystan. “Mr. Kane, sir. I have the luncheon you requested.” He tipped his hat to Vienne. “Ma’am.”

Vienne managed a tight smile in response. Trystan, however, greeted the young man as though they were old friends. “Thank you, James.” He took the basket and slipped what appeared to be several pound notes into the servant’s gloved hand. “Tell Havers to take you back to the hotel and then return for me here at five.”

James grinned. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He tipped his hat again at Vienne and then exited, leaving the two of them alone again—or as alone as two people could be in a building full of workers and craftsmen, all of whom were making noise while conveniently remaining out of sight.

“Care to join me?” Trystan asked, gesturing to the basket.

From where she stood, Vienne could smell the scents of warm, yeasty fresh bread mixed with sharp cheese and fresh fruit. Her stomach growled at a most unladylike volume—enough to take all the spite out of a woman. She smiled when he chuckled and said, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

They left the front foyer for a quieter locale—a mostly finished boutique, one they couldn’t decide whether to sell ladies’ hats and gloves or personal toiletries.

Trystan took a blanket from the top of the basket and opened it, spreading it on the gleaming floor with great flourish. Once again, he offered her his hand, this time to help her sit.

Vienne arranged herself as comfortably as she could in a corset and confining skirts, peeled off her gloves, and removed her hat. The feathers on the brim bobbed as she set it aside.

From the basket came an array of delicious fruits, cheeses, bread, and meat—enough to feed six people at least. The English were
such
gluttons. There was a bottle of wine as well.

She looked up to find Trystan watching her, eyes sparkling as a naughty grin curved his lips. “If I open this, you’re not going to kiss me again, are you?”

Vienne arched a brow. “You should be so fortunate. No, I do believe I can control myself this time, monsieur.”

He wasn’t the least bit fazed. “Oh, there’s the French.” He popped the cork. “I must have struck a nerve.”

“I’m dangerously close to striking you with my boot.”

Trystan laughed then—a sound that cleaved right through to her heart. She had heard him laugh many times before, but she couldn’t remember any of it sounding this lovely.

He poured rich red wine into two etched crystal glasses. “I did miss you on occasion, Vienne.”

Only on
occasion
? “I will admit I have thought of you over the years.” More than she was willing to admit.

He looked as though he hoped she might say more, but she had no idea what it was he wanted to hear. “Of course, I read about your successes in the papers. You must be very proud of yourself.”

“Not really,” he replied, setting the bottle aside. Much of the humor seemed to have drained out of him. “I’m proud of what I have accomplished, but I consider myself a work in progress, as the artists say.”

“I suppose we all are,” Vienne said before taking a sip of wine. It was divine. “A work in progress, that is. Each human, desperately trying to make something of him- or herself before meeting the maker.
As if
God cares how much money we have or how many buildings have our names on them.”

“But we don’t do it for God. Our achievements are for ourselves, aren’t they? And to impress others?”

His words grabbed her heart and shoved it into her throat. Did he suspect that proving herself—her worth—was what drove her? That some mornings it was pride and spite and little else that got her out of bed? Lord knew, there were plenty of things she’d done that she wasn’t proud of, so she needed that spite, that anger, to push her forward, even though the people she wanted to prove herself to would never know what she had achieved.

Unless the Duke of Ryeton revealed her last name to the world. She didn’t think that was a viable concern, however, not if the beautiful bouquet that had arrived from him that morning was any indication. Wondering what prompted Grey’s apology, her gaze turned to Trystan. He was still unpacking the basket, seemingly unaware of the fact that in his presence, she was as uncertain as a mere girl. She wanted to impress
him,
and knew herself well enough to know that could only lead to trouble. He would be the last person to look at her and find anything extraordinary. Once, he had looked upon her as though she was a goddess, but she had taken good care of that.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” Trystan remarked, offering her a plate loaded with various offerings. “Something on your mind?”

Vienne accepted the food with murmured thanks. “Simply woolgathering, as you English put it. Nothing of importance.”

He glanced at her as he filled a plate for himself, peering at her through the lock of hair that had fallen over his brow. “Everything you think is important, Vienne. You are the least capable person I know of being frivolous.”

He said it with a generous amount of teasing in his tone, but it stung just a little—more than it ought. “I can be frivolous. I once bought six pairs of the same shoe in different colors just because I adored the look of them, yet I can’t bring myself to wear half of them. I keep saving them for a special occasion.”

Trystan grinned. “A frivolous person would wear them to clean out the stables, not treasure them.”

“I’ve cleaned out a stable before, so I can honestly tell you I would never treat those shoes with such wanton disrespect.”

He popped a grape into his mouth and said around it, “I can’t imagine you shoveling horse manure.”

Vienne smiled. “When I was a girl we had horses. Oh, how I loved to care for them! Such beautiful animals.” Just the thought of them made her feel so warm inside. Why didn’t she own horses now? Other than the ones that pulled her carriage, she didn’t have any—not even one to ride. She missed riding.

When she looked at Trystan, she found him regarding her strangely—almost as if he fancied her a goddess again. Her traitorous heart spasmed in pleasure. No, she was not a good person at all to want his adoration. She would only crush him again. Trystan wasn’t as hard as she was—wasn’t as damaged. He was good and pure. There had been an innocence to him that attracted her; a sweetness that made her want to take everything he offered and give everything she had to him in return.

That was why she ended the affair. She had given everything once and paid a horrible price.

“What?” she demanded when the silence ran on too long and her thoughts began to stray to things best left alone.

He shook his head and plucked up a piece of cheese. “I suppose I have a hard time picturing you as a young girl.”

“Why? Because I’m so old?” She certainly sounded like a crone; was behaving like one.

Trystan snorted. “Positively ancient. It’s a wonder you haven’t crumbled to dust on this very blanket. Don’t be so foolishly reactionary, Vienne. It doesn’t suit you.”

“As if you know what suits me.” That had a little more bite than she intended, but the damned man didn’t seem to notice.

He simply took a bite of cheese. “I know you better than you think.”

How many times had she heard that before? Every man that ever shared her bed had made a similar declaration, so she shouldn’t be surprised that Trystan felt the same. Truth be told, this somewhat disappointed her.

“Enlighten me,” she invited. Hopefully he would fail miserably and she could go back to thinking that leaving him had been the right thing to do. She could stop wondering what would happen if she kissed him again. Would he reject her, or would he give in?

It irked her that he refused her last time. She was unaccustomed to being turned down.

Trystan stretched out on the blanket, leaning on his elbow as he reclined on his side. He picked up a piece of chicken from his plate and took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. He followed it with a drink of wine.

Vienne smiled. “Nothing to say?” Disappointment eased a little under the pleasure of being right.

His gaze locked with hers and the smile fell from her lips. “You are the youngest in your family. Most of your siblings are much older than you and spoiled you. You were taught to believe that everything you did was perfect, and then something happened, something that made you not so charming and wonderful anymore. That’s why you keep reaching for a bigger and better goal. You’re trying to show the world that you are still perfect.”

Ice pooled at the base of Vienne’s skull, freezing her very blood. She couldn’t find words to make him stop, couldn’t make herself move or run away. She was helpless, pinned there by his unnerving gaze.

“I’m not certain how you came to believe that men were for little more than entertainment and to be used as stepping stones to get where you want to go, but my guess is that someone abused your trust very badly and taught you that very valuable lesson. Now you prefer lovers who are older and only want you for how you make them feel, or younger ones who want you as a sexual trophy. That’s all right because you have your uses for them as well— How am I doing thus far?”

Vienne looked away, her appetite suddenly gone. “You paint a very unflattering portrait, Mr. Kane.”

“You weren’t a trophy to me, Vienne. I would have laid down my life for you.”

If anyone else had said it, she would have laughed at the melodramatic pronouncement, but when the words were on his lips, they only served to fill her with a deep sense of guilt and regret. “I would not have appreciated the sacrifice, surely you know me to be that selfish at least.”

“Yes, I do. I also know that my turning you down that night in your office has been like a thorn in your paw ever since it happened. You don’t have no said to you very often, do you?”

Anger made it easy to look him in the eye. “That is why you did it, is it not? To teach me a lesson? So you could be the man who turned down Vienne La Rieux?”

His smile was grim, to say the least. “I turned you down because if anything romantic does happen between us, you will be sober and it will be my decision.”

Vienne snorted in disgust. “Trust me, Trystan, nothing
romantic
will ever happen between us.”

Her mockery brought a dark stain to his cheeks—one that both pleased her and made her want to take the words back. “It was simply a figure of speech, Vienne. I know you treat everyone in your life like a business transaction. That’s why you’re so good at screwing people in bed, and out. I paid for it last time we slept together; I have no illusions about getting it for free this time.”

How had their pleasant lunch, their weeklong truce, disintegrated into
this
? “I beg your pardon, Trystan. Obviously, you continue to harbor much resentment toward me. If you will excuse me, I will return to work rather than take this unfortunate conversation any further.” She managed to get to her feet, though the effort was far from graceful. She couldn’t stop herself from informing him, “I am not the same woman I was back then, and I apologize for hurting you, but I cannot apologize for ending our relationship. It was best for both of us.”